Title: Only a Northern Song
Author: Helene
e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Alternative Reality
Disclaimer: with each new chapter I come to realize that I do not own
a whole bunch of things, such as the "Beatles", "Phantom of the Opera",
"Sailor Moon" and even the computer I used to type this.
AN: This story does not feature magical powers, fighting against pure
evil, or unearthly love conquering time and space. It is all about the
ordinary mysteries and trivial miracles of human relationships. Just
like George Harrison wrote: "This is only a Northern Song".
Crowds, flooding the University from all directions, and music, blazing
from loudspeakers, signaled the beginning of a recess. The place suddenly
burst into activity. The Campus sticklers of politics and advocacy groups
representatives were handing stickers and brochures to draw supporters
and donations to their diverse Causes; psychology and sociology students
were fishing for eligible respondents for their numerous questionnaires
designated to complete their tedious researches; prominent professors
walked briskly to escape their devotees, and childhood friends were
desperately seeking each other in the hustle and bustle, hoping against
all odds to have a cup of coffee together and reflect upon the "good old
times".
But even the exuberant wonders of Campus life failed to distract male
gazes from a casually dressed blond standing near a wall money machine;
their first excuse being her slender legs, slim waist and a splendid
mane of aureate hair framing a delicate face and tumbling down to her
knees. Having stopped to look a little closer, however, the young woman's
not-so-secret admirers didn't seem to accept the challenge of her bored
expression and semi closed eyes, choosing to saunter away rather than
endeavor wooing the girl.
All of a sudden, her back straightened, her tired pout transformed
magically (Moon Jaw Power:) into a beaming smile, and her eyelids snapped
open to reveal a gleaming pair of sky blue eyes; her entire being was
emanating excited delight as she started mouthing the words of the "Phantom
of the Opera" theme song that sounded from the loudspeakers.
The mood, though, did not last, and the smile was instantly erased, as a
tenor filled the busy hall. Strange enough, the singer's impact on the rest
of the resident female population proved to be quite the opposite, for at
least half of the present girls ceased movement, signing contentedly as
their faces reflected sheer bliss mingling with utter adoration.
The girls' reasons had been lost upon the first "Phantom" fan, which took
off running immediately after having shown the signs of recognizing the male
performer. Books clutched to the chest, hair in total disarray, she dashed
wildly, barely managing to escape collisions with the people in her way, and
muttering under her breath some poorly chosen unmentionables about a monster
and its sadistic creators.
Once safely out of the hearing distance, the recently formed whirlwind of
gold slowed down her pace to walk further into the labyrinth also known as
the faculty of social sciences. Finally, she stopped near a door of a closed
auditorium.
"Now, brace yourself, Sere" - she commanded herself. - "You were the one to
bring this upon yourself, so don't you break down on me".
"Oh, why on God's green earth did I choose to major in both Psychology and
Education, and why did I have to excel in both" - she proceeded to moan
quietly, having in the last moment chosen it over a hearty wail. The displeasure
with the situation made known to the world, "Sere" took a few moments to school
her expression, adjusted her outfit of a white mid thigh length skirt and a pale
blue shirt, and swung the door open.
"Good morning, class" - she grinned at the assembled students.
**********************************************************************
Dark and ominously silent, these are the words the occasional visitor would
use to describe this place only to have the owners try and convince them
that the lack of light was meant to soothe the artists' turbulent spirits,
and that the quiet was part and parcel of the productive work setup. The
narrow corridor seemed deserted, even a rare door opening and a lonely
figure scooting fitfully in this or that direction did not make the slightest
difference.
The corridor led to a dead end, which featured a heavy wooden door. Number
one, its plate said, and that's exactly what its fancy gilded handle looked.
The handle squeaked, jerking and turning impatiently. Another squeak, and the
next object to move was the door. It glided noiselessly, then stopped, leaving
a few inches opening and showing a bunch of people bustling around in a
strange room divided into two halves with a wall of glass and loaded with
multi-handled equipment.
"That's it for today, folks" - announced a cheerful voice. To one young man's
opinion, however, the voice had been far too cheerful. In fact, judging by his
sour mug, its cheerfulness had exceeded the level allowed by the current
legislation.
"I'm off" - he said curtly and strode brusquely down the corridor, leaving the
girls behind him to stare longingly at his retreating figure.
And what a magnificent figure had that been! Its long and powerful limbs, proud
bearing, graceful movements and a splendid mop of charcoal hair to top it all
had definitely earned their owner admiration of quite a few females, although
any casual observer would find it surprising that the feeling could be
perpetuated, as this otherwise perfect male species' face appeared to be
perennially marred with either the bored frown he had shown bidding his goodbyes,
or the arrogant scowl that had been put on a few moments after.
"Surrounded by simpering fools" - he growled. "What a glorious fate! If the whole
point of this whole career of the wonder boy with the wonder voice had been those
hours of so-called recording and working my living daylights out in order to
achieve the nonexistent perfect sound, so that my ever encouraging fans would
become even more adoring, this is a feat as impossible as it is uncalled-for".
Punctuating the speech to self with a derisive smirk, the man headed to his car.
"Well, Dare, you were the one to bring this upon yourself when you first entered
this studio to make up for not being able to enter the med school. Now bear the
consequences" - he coaxed. A resigned sigh, and "Dare" got into his sleek silver
Mercedes and drove away.
*****************************************************************************
Thankfully, the blinds had been closed, and the apartment was undisturbed by the
slightest of sounds. That meant that the maid had already left, and no unexpected
visitor had decided to grace the place with their unwelcome presence while she
had still been there to let them in. Most importantly, however, that implied,
that all he had to do before plopping down on the couch and burying his head into
the cushions was to discard his cumbersome jacket and drop the car keys onto an
entrance stand.
"Hea-a-ave-e-en" - a self-assured male bel canto* called into the dim lit room;
somehow managing to convey both delight at having a break, and a dare to the world
outside the haven to intrude. "I'm in heaven..." - it crooned languorously, then
stopped as abruptly as started.
"Why are they so obsessed with Luis Armstrong's performance of Gershvin?" - mused
the voice. "I mean, his cliche charisma of African-American jazzman should have worn
off by now, and his feeble voice had been frankly unimpressive... Maybe..." - the
proud owner of the tenor grinned to himself blithely if a little ruefully. "Maybe
they'll..."
The ruminations were brought to a halt by shrill ringing of the telephone, which was
every bit as annoying as the myriad successors of Adam Bell's invention had ever
seemed to their holders, provided that the latter had been worn out by their day
exertion, frustrated by its results and eager for no single experience the bounteous
world has to offer. Probably, all of the aforesaid had been true with regard to the
young man, slouching on the couch, since, as he got up to answer the call, his almost
carefree countenance swung instantaneously to reflect unparalleled dreariness.
"Hello".
"Dare darling, how was your day?" - drawled the caller, who turned out to be very
feminine and very familiar.
"Dreadful".
"Well, then, it is about to change dramatically". Her husky and promising intonations
usually signaled nothing but trouble, and he shuddered to think about the near future
and being unable to resist her yet again.
"What is it?"
"Don't sulk. Doll up. I'm sending my driver to pick you up. It's a surprise".
The next thing he heard from the receiver was the busy signal.
That was just great. There went the deserved siesta. Her royal seductress had been
at it again. And again it had failed to evoke even the tiniest bit of curiosity.
*****************************************************************************
The class had gone satisfactorily, the point had been conveyed and taken in without
major mishaps, the practice session turned out a sweeping success... Just like
professor Harrington had predicted, there had been nothing to worry about. A few
quirks in the process, sunny attitude, well prepared framework, and, of course, the
good grasp of the material had really been all it took to captivate the audience,
which, in turn, had been quite expressive showing its acknowledgement. Life was
just... Umm... Sign. Thanks God for not having learned how to drive...
The head propped against the car window, the hair spilling all over the place, and
the neck bent unnaturally, she allowed herself to be carried away to a fantasy world
of peace and harmony, substituting the motor buzz for a string concerto and gazing
intently into realms much farther than the horizon without paying attention to the
road. Her mind had finally let the school thoughts go to leave her enjoying the rare
moments of being indolent, spiritually as well as physically.
"Serena! Serena, wake up. We're there".
"Go away. I'm not ready yet".
"Now don't whine. Come, Raye is waiting, and you know how she gets about waiting for
you".
"So?" She arched a brow quizzically, but an impish smirk, tugging at her lips, and
mischievous twitching of her crystal clear eyes belied the show of indifference.
"Don't give me that look".
"It's not my fault that she demanded that I have supper with you guys".
"It's not my fault you agreed".
"Oh, poor baby, have I ruined your hope to spend the whole evening with your lovely
wife? You should have told me, you know, instead of virtually kidnapping me from the
University and driving us both here".
"You're impossible".
"Why thank you Chad, but how can you calmly compliment me when Ray is there waiting?
Let's go".
Serena did not wait for her companion to open the door for her. Instead, she climbed
out and started pacing towards the restaurant. Once inside, she quickly scanned the
establishment for the familiar jet-black hair of her best friend. Having spotted her
target, she stalked towards her expertly.
"What do you want?" - she drawled darkly.
"How kind of you to bestow on us the priceless gift of your companionship! But
whatever have you done with my spouse that he does not approach me?"
"I think he is going to sulk for a couple of minutes" - Serena answered, giggling.
"Do you terribly mind?" - she added tentatively.
"Yep. We can't order without him, and I'm aware that you're starving".
"Then you'd better go and fetch him, 'cause you know how I get..."
"No need, you evil sorceress. Sir Chad is here to save his fair lady from your
impending wrath".
Both women laughed at the tall man's flamboyant demeanor, and at the way his chestnut
bangs fell onto his face as he proudly straightened his back and squared his broad
shoulders. He pulled himself a chair and indicated a waiter to take the group's orders.
*****************************************************************************
"Dare, you made it!" - she exclaimed enthusiastically as he walked in.
"Don't I always?" - he reproached, offering her a dazzling smile to make up for the
sarcastic implication of the question and the cynical glint in his slightly narrowed
eyes. "Now let's get down to business".
"You know" - she looked at him sullenly, - "you need to tend to your small talk".
"Does it bother you?"
"Nothing about you can bother me, and you are well aware of that" - she purred. "But
matters of the heart put aside, this attitude may prove bad for the very business
you are so impatient to discuss".
"How come?"
"Well, for one, you're likely to ward off the audience, and then, the media might
grow to abhor it. Which brings me to the purpose of this rendezvous. You, my pet" -
she intoned with exaggerated excitement, - "are going to participate in "Raye of
Sunshine" talk show!"
He hated that high pitch she always resorted to when she meant to sound young and
impressionable. Really, she should realize that he could see through her
supercilious tricks. The business was all they had in common, and he had enough
insight not to jeopardize it; but sometimes, albeit, when she endeavored to con him
with her charms, he would get almost irresistible urges to sever the relationship.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...
"Dare! Darien! Darien Shields, listen to me!"
Of course, the straightforward approach had been just as bothersome. Her screech
nearly made him clutch his ears, and the annoyed countenance she had assumed reminded
him why he had been immune to the woman's notorious magnetism.
"Yes Beatrice".
"Yes as in "yes, I'll do it"?"
Once again, she had switched from rightful indignation to seemingly childish
hopefulness in less than thirty seconds. Surprising it was not, as it was no longer
amusing. Rather than those, it was a golden opportunity that had to be grasped at all
cost, even submitting himself to embarrassing questions and skeptic disposition of
the accomplished journalist, famous for her meticulous disseminations of her subjects.
"Yes".
"Awesome. Now" - Beatrice continued, this time opting for her regular professional
tone, underlining that he had better hang on her each and every word, since they
would not be repeated. "Raye is one of those journalists..."
The "business voice" was neither high pitched nor low and seductive. Instead, it was
rather pleasant and very even; and that was the reason why it had failed to get the
slightest reaction out of him. He wondered briefly whether she would prefer his
exasperation to the current indifference had she known that she could only elicit
one of the options. And, since the topic had not been particularly stimulating, he
set to examine her features.
Her luxuriant hair was cut to the shoulder length and died to a fiery color with
gilded highlights; she had aristocratic face with high cheekbones and a perfect Greek
nose, shrewd almond eyes and a graceful neck. Her skin did not just appear smooth,
and she bragged not having to resort to padded bras thanks to the voluptuous curves
no exertion could doom.
Her communication skill was awesome, her education - excellent, her manners - flawless.
In fact, she was ideal. But the ideal was not his. What a pity that only one of them
should understand that.
"...and remember that she always has something up her sleeve, and the only way for you
to prevent this interview from backfiring is to maintain composure. Is that clear?"
The fates had been on his side that day after all, for they let him hear the end of the
lecture. Why thank you, ladies.
"Yes Madam".
*****************************************************************************
"No".
"Come on..."
"No".
"It will be so much fun!"
"No way".
"You can not refuse your best friend, can you? After all, I did choose you over Ames
and Leeta".
"Leeta had been already married, so she could not be your bridesmaid anyway".
"Ames could".
"No, Ray".
She had attempted being gruff, raising her voice, and calm reasoning; she was on the
verge of either bursting into onion-induced tears, or throwing her food at her nagging
friend. Not that it would have helped, but it could still lift her spirits. Alas, she
could not afford exhibiting weakness, for her opponent had been one of the most
formidable journalists ever, one who would never hesitate to use anything to attain
her goal.
"Remember when we were on vacation, and you wanted to borrow my..."
"Do not even say it".
"As long as you agree to come to the show".
"That's blackmail". Serena signed, slumping in her chair. Game, set, match, and the
prize goes to Raye Flambeau. - "I'll do it".
"Thanks, Sere. That means an awful lot to me". The journalist suddenly became very
grave and severe. - "I wouldn't have sunk so low as to plant biased people in the
audience, but what they are offering is a rank insult to my integrity. They wish to
turn my baby into a forty-five minute indirect advertisement. I can't allow it, please
understand".
"I do. I detest the guy, remember?"
"And that, my dear, is what makes you perfect for the job" - the elegant brunette
grinned. "Although, I have been speaking about his producer. She had the nerve to
approach my superiors without talking to me first. I don't have the slightest doubt
that she had pulled some strings to make them impose this topic on me. So here is the
battle plan". Raye leaned closer to Serena, obviously going for the image of a cunning
plotter.
"Now, ladies, let us forsake this sordid discussion and enjoy the evening" - interfered
Chad. His wife had been obsessing over her management decision for as long as three
days, and he really needed to distract her in order to get her thoughts to return to
an infinitely more important subject, albeit, her adoring husband.
"Later, then" - agreed his female companions.
"Tomorrow?" - asked Raye.
"Over lunch. In the Campus. Two thirty. I'll be in my office" - said Serena.
*****************************************************************************
glossary (if you need it):
tenor - the highest of the male voices, or a part, written for such voice.
bel canto - this word originates from Italian, and it means "beautiful
singing". It refers only to the singing we hear in an opera and opera-like
musical numbers. It can not be used for jazz and pop, and is hardly suitable
for rock.
the song that Darien sings in his appartment is "Cheek to cheek" by
George and Ira Gershvin, and Satchmo's version is THE BEST
Do you still have questions? Suggestions? Flames? R&R!!!
Author: Helene
e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Alternative Reality
Disclaimer: with each new chapter I come to realize that I do not own
a whole bunch of things, such as the "Beatles", "Phantom of the Opera",
"Sailor Moon" and even the computer I used to type this.
AN: This story does not feature magical powers, fighting against pure
evil, or unearthly love conquering time and space. It is all about the
ordinary mysteries and trivial miracles of human relationships. Just
like George Harrison wrote: "This is only a Northern Song".
Crowds, flooding the University from all directions, and music, blazing
from loudspeakers, signaled the beginning of a recess. The place suddenly
burst into activity. The Campus sticklers of politics and advocacy groups
representatives were handing stickers and brochures to draw supporters
and donations to their diverse Causes; psychology and sociology students
were fishing for eligible respondents for their numerous questionnaires
designated to complete their tedious researches; prominent professors
walked briskly to escape their devotees, and childhood friends were
desperately seeking each other in the hustle and bustle, hoping against
all odds to have a cup of coffee together and reflect upon the "good old
times".
But even the exuberant wonders of Campus life failed to distract male
gazes from a casually dressed blond standing near a wall money machine;
their first excuse being her slender legs, slim waist and a splendid
mane of aureate hair framing a delicate face and tumbling down to her
knees. Having stopped to look a little closer, however, the young woman's
not-so-secret admirers didn't seem to accept the challenge of her bored
expression and semi closed eyes, choosing to saunter away rather than
endeavor wooing the girl.
All of a sudden, her back straightened, her tired pout transformed
magically (Moon Jaw Power:) into a beaming smile, and her eyelids snapped
open to reveal a gleaming pair of sky blue eyes; her entire being was
emanating excited delight as she started mouthing the words of the "Phantom
of the Opera" theme song that sounded from the loudspeakers.
The mood, though, did not last, and the smile was instantly erased, as a
tenor filled the busy hall. Strange enough, the singer's impact on the rest
of the resident female population proved to be quite the opposite, for at
least half of the present girls ceased movement, signing contentedly as
their faces reflected sheer bliss mingling with utter adoration.
The girls' reasons had been lost upon the first "Phantom" fan, which took
off running immediately after having shown the signs of recognizing the male
performer. Books clutched to the chest, hair in total disarray, she dashed
wildly, barely managing to escape collisions with the people in her way, and
muttering under her breath some poorly chosen unmentionables about a monster
and its sadistic creators.
Once safely out of the hearing distance, the recently formed whirlwind of
gold slowed down her pace to walk further into the labyrinth also known as
the faculty of social sciences. Finally, she stopped near a door of a closed
auditorium.
"Now, brace yourself, Sere" - she commanded herself. - "You were the one to
bring this upon yourself, so don't you break down on me".
"Oh, why on God's green earth did I choose to major in both Psychology and
Education, and why did I have to excel in both" - she proceeded to moan
quietly, having in the last moment chosen it over a hearty wail. The displeasure
with the situation made known to the world, "Sere" took a few moments to school
her expression, adjusted her outfit of a white mid thigh length skirt and a pale
blue shirt, and swung the door open.
"Good morning, class" - she grinned at the assembled students.
**********************************************************************
Dark and ominously silent, these are the words the occasional visitor would
use to describe this place only to have the owners try and convince them
that the lack of light was meant to soothe the artists' turbulent spirits,
and that the quiet was part and parcel of the productive work setup. The
narrow corridor seemed deserted, even a rare door opening and a lonely
figure scooting fitfully in this or that direction did not make the slightest
difference.
The corridor led to a dead end, which featured a heavy wooden door. Number
one, its plate said, and that's exactly what its fancy gilded handle looked.
The handle squeaked, jerking and turning impatiently. Another squeak, and the
next object to move was the door. It glided noiselessly, then stopped, leaving
a few inches opening and showing a bunch of people bustling around in a
strange room divided into two halves with a wall of glass and loaded with
multi-handled equipment.
"That's it for today, folks" - announced a cheerful voice. To one young man's
opinion, however, the voice had been far too cheerful. In fact, judging by his
sour mug, its cheerfulness had exceeded the level allowed by the current
legislation.
"I'm off" - he said curtly and strode brusquely down the corridor, leaving the
girls behind him to stare longingly at his retreating figure.
And what a magnificent figure had that been! Its long and powerful limbs, proud
bearing, graceful movements and a splendid mop of charcoal hair to top it all
had definitely earned their owner admiration of quite a few females, although
any casual observer would find it surprising that the feeling could be
perpetuated, as this otherwise perfect male species' face appeared to be
perennially marred with either the bored frown he had shown bidding his goodbyes,
or the arrogant scowl that had been put on a few moments after.
"Surrounded by simpering fools" - he growled. "What a glorious fate! If the whole
point of this whole career of the wonder boy with the wonder voice had been those
hours of so-called recording and working my living daylights out in order to
achieve the nonexistent perfect sound, so that my ever encouraging fans would
become even more adoring, this is a feat as impossible as it is uncalled-for".
Punctuating the speech to self with a derisive smirk, the man headed to his car.
"Well, Dare, you were the one to bring this upon yourself when you first entered
this studio to make up for not being able to enter the med school. Now bear the
consequences" - he coaxed. A resigned sigh, and "Dare" got into his sleek silver
Mercedes and drove away.
*****************************************************************************
Thankfully, the blinds had been closed, and the apartment was undisturbed by the
slightest of sounds. That meant that the maid had already left, and no unexpected
visitor had decided to grace the place with their unwelcome presence while she
had still been there to let them in. Most importantly, however, that implied,
that all he had to do before plopping down on the couch and burying his head into
the cushions was to discard his cumbersome jacket and drop the car keys onto an
entrance stand.
"Hea-a-ave-e-en" - a self-assured male bel canto* called into the dim lit room;
somehow managing to convey both delight at having a break, and a dare to the world
outside the haven to intrude. "I'm in heaven..." - it crooned languorously, then
stopped as abruptly as started.
"Why are they so obsessed with Luis Armstrong's performance of Gershvin?" - mused
the voice. "I mean, his cliche charisma of African-American jazzman should have worn
off by now, and his feeble voice had been frankly unimpressive... Maybe..." - the
proud owner of the tenor grinned to himself blithely if a little ruefully. "Maybe
they'll..."
The ruminations were brought to a halt by shrill ringing of the telephone, which was
every bit as annoying as the myriad successors of Adam Bell's invention had ever
seemed to their holders, provided that the latter had been worn out by their day
exertion, frustrated by its results and eager for no single experience the bounteous
world has to offer. Probably, all of the aforesaid had been true with regard to the
young man, slouching on the couch, since, as he got up to answer the call, his almost
carefree countenance swung instantaneously to reflect unparalleled dreariness.
"Hello".
"Dare darling, how was your day?" - drawled the caller, who turned out to be very
feminine and very familiar.
"Dreadful".
"Well, then, it is about to change dramatically". Her husky and promising intonations
usually signaled nothing but trouble, and he shuddered to think about the near future
and being unable to resist her yet again.
"What is it?"
"Don't sulk. Doll up. I'm sending my driver to pick you up. It's a surprise".
The next thing he heard from the receiver was the busy signal.
That was just great. There went the deserved siesta. Her royal seductress had been
at it again. And again it had failed to evoke even the tiniest bit of curiosity.
*****************************************************************************
The class had gone satisfactorily, the point had been conveyed and taken in without
major mishaps, the practice session turned out a sweeping success... Just like
professor Harrington had predicted, there had been nothing to worry about. A few
quirks in the process, sunny attitude, well prepared framework, and, of course, the
good grasp of the material had really been all it took to captivate the audience,
which, in turn, had been quite expressive showing its acknowledgement. Life was
just... Umm... Sign. Thanks God for not having learned how to drive...
The head propped against the car window, the hair spilling all over the place, and
the neck bent unnaturally, she allowed herself to be carried away to a fantasy world
of peace and harmony, substituting the motor buzz for a string concerto and gazing
intently into realms much farther than the horizon without paying attention to the
road. Her mind had finally let the school thoughts go to leave her enjoying the rare
moments of being indolent, spiritually as well as physically.
"Serena! Serena, wake up. We're there".
"Go away. I'm not ready yet".
"Now don't whine. Come, Raye is waiting, and you know how she gets about waiting for
you".
"So?" She arched a brow quizzically, but an impish smirk, tugging at her lips, and
mischievous twitching of her crystal clear eyes belied the show of indifference.
"Don't give me that look".
"It's not my fault that she demanded that I have supper with you guys".
"It's not my fault you agreed".
"Oh, poor baby, have I ruined your hope to spend the whole evening with your lovely
wife? You should have told me, you know, instead of virtually kidnapping me from the
University and driving us both here".
"You're impossible".
"Why thank you Chad, but how can you calmly compliment me when Ray is there waiting?
Let's go".
Serena did not wait for her companion to open the door for her. Instead, she climbed
out and started pacing towards the restaurant. Once inside, she quickly scanned the
establishment for the familiar jet-black hair of her best friend. Having spotted her
target, she stalked towards her expertly.
"What do you want?" - she drawled darkly.
"How kind of you to bestow on us the priceless gift of your companionship! But
whatever have you done with my spouse that he does not approach me?"
"I think he is going to sulk for a couple of minutes" - Serena answered, giggling.
"Do you terribly mind?" - she added tentatively.
"Yep. We can't order without him, and I'm aware that you're starving".
"Then you'd better go and fetch him, 'cause you know how I get..."
"No need, you evil sorceress. Sir Chad is here to save his fair lady from your
impending wrath".
Both women laughed at the tall man's flamboyant demeanor, and at the way his chestnut
bangs fell onto his face as he proudly straightened his back and squared his broad
shoulders. He pulled himself a chair and indicated a waiter to take the group's orders.
*****************************************************************************
"Dare, you made it!" - she exclaimed enthusiastically as he walked in.
"Don't I always?" - he reproached, offering her a dazzling smile to make up for the
sarcastic implication of the question and the cynical glint in his slightly narrowed
eyes. "Now let's get down to business".
"You know" - she looked at him sullenly, - "you need to tend to your small talk".
"Does it bother you?"
"Nothing about you can bother me, and you are well aware of that" - she purred. "But
matters of the heart put aside, this attitude may prove bad for the very business
you are so impatient to discuss".
"How come?"
"Well, for one, you're likely to ward off the audience, and then, the media might
grow to abhor it. Which brings me to the purpose of this rendezvous. You, my pet" -
she intoned with exaggerated excitement, - "are going to participate in "Raye of
Sunshine" talk show!"
He hated that high pitch she always resorted to when she meant to sound young and
impressionable. Really, she should realize that he could see through her
supercilious tricks. The business was all they had in common, and he had enough
insight not to jeopardize it; but sometimes, albeit, when she endeavored to con him
with her charms, he would get almost irresistible urges to sever the relationship.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...
"Dare! Darien! Darien Shields, listen to me!"
Of course, the straightforward approach had been just as bothersome. Her screech
nearly made him clutch his ears, and the annoyed countenance she had assumed reminded
him why he had been immune to the woman's notorious magnetism.
"Yes Beatrice".
"Yes as in "yes, I'll do it"?"
Once again, she had switched from rightful indignation to seemingly childish
hopefulness in less than thirty seconds. Surprising it was not, as it was no longer
amusing. Rather than those, it was a golden opportunity that had to be grasped at all
cost, even submitting himself to embarrassing questions and skeptic disposition of
the accomplished journalist, famous for her meticulous disseminations of her subjects.
"Yes".
"Awesome. Now" - Beatrice continued, this time opting for her regular professional
tone, underlining that he had better hang on her each and every word, since they
would not be repeated. "Raye is one of those journalists..."
The "business voice" was neither high pitched nor low and seductive. Instead, it was
rather pleasant and very even; and that was the reason why it had failed to get the
slightest reaction out of him. He wondered briefly whether she would prefer his
exasperation to the current indifference had she known that she could only elicit
one of the options. And, since the topic had not been particularly stimulating, he
set to examine her features.
Her luxuriant hair was cut to the shoulder length and died to a fiery color with
gilded highlights; she had aristocratic face with high cheekbones and a perfect Greek
nose, shrewd almond eyes and a graceful neck. Her skin did not just appear smooth,
and she bragged not having to resort to padded bras thanks to the voluptuous curves
no exertion could doom.
Her communication skill was awesome, her education - excellent, her manners - flawless.
In fact, she was ideal. But the ideal was not his. What a pity that only one of them
should understand that.
"...and remember that she always has something up her sleeve, and the only way for you
to prevent this interview from backfiring is to maintain composure. Is that clear?"
The fates had been on his side that day after all, for they let him hear the end of the
lecture. Why thank you, ladies.
"Yes Madam".
*****************************************************************************
"No".
"Come on..."
"No".
"It will be so much fun!"
"No way".
"You can not refuse your best friend, can you? After all, I did choose you over Ames
and Leeta".
"Leeta had been already married, so she could not be your bridesmaid anyway".
"Ames could".
"No, Ray".
She had attempted being gruff, raising her voice, and calm reasoning; she was on the
verge of either bursting into onion-induced tears, or throwing her food at her nagging
friend. Not that it would have helped, but it could still lift her spirits. Alas, she
could not afford exhibiting weakness, for her opponent had been one of the most
formidable journalists ever, one who would never hesitate to use anything to attain
her goal.
"Remember when we were on vacation, and you wanted to borrow my..."
"Do not even say it".
"As long as you agree to come to the show".
"That's blackmail". Serena signed, slumping in her chair. Game, set, match, and the
prize goes to Raye Flambeau. - "I'll do it".
"Thanks, Sere. That means an awful lot to me". The journalist suddenly became very
grave and severe. - "I wouldn't have sunk so low as to plant biased people in the
audience, but what they are offering is a rank insult to my integrity. They wish to
turn my baby into a forty-five minute indirect advertisement. I can't allow it, please
understand".
"I do. I detest the guy, remember?"
"And that, my dear, is what makes you perfect for the job" - the elegant brunette
grinned. "Although, I have been speaking about his producer. She had the nerve to
approach my superiors without talking to me first. I don't have the slightest doubt
that she had pulled some strings to make them impose this topic on me. So here is the
battle plan". Raye leaned closer to Serena, obviously going for the image of a cunning
plotter.
"Now, ladies, let us forsake this sordid discussion and enjoy the evening" - interfered
Chad. His wife had been obsessing over her management decision for as long as three
days, and he really needed to distract her in order to get her thoughts to return to
an infinitely more important subject, albeit, her adoring husband.
"Later, then" - agreed his female companions.
"Tomorrow?" - asked Raye.
"Over lunch. In the Campus. Two thirty. I'll be in my office" - said Serena.
*****************************************************************************
glossary (if you need it):
tenor - the highest of the male voices, or a part, written for such voice.
bel canto - this word originates from Italian, and it means "beautiful
singing". It refers only to the singing we hear in an opera and opera-like
musical numbers. It can not be used for jazz and pop, and is hardly suitable
for rock.
the song that Darien sings in his appartment is "Cheek to cheek" by
George and Ira Gershvin, and Satchmo's version is THE BEST
Do you still have questions? Suggestions? Flames? R&R!!!